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Readings (click here for full text of the readings): As part of my job as an ethicist at Fletcher Allen, I’m confronted with death on an almost daily basis. The only time I get called in is when there are some pretty major decisions at hand. If somebody’s trying to figure out whether to get their tonsils out, they don’t need to talk to me. But if there’s a ventilator that might need to be turned off, or a loved one that the family has to let go of, that’s when the ethicist. There’s a good side and a bad side of that. The good side is that I’m constantly reminded of my own mortality, because when I look into the eyes of people who are suffering and dying, I see myself. In that sense I live the words of Ash Wednesday way more often than just once a year: “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.” And because of that I savor things more than I otherwise would: I cherish each day when I wake up next to Pam, and each evening when I give Catie a bath, and when Pam and I sing her a lullaby, no matter how off-key it is. If nothing else, I know that nothing lasts forever. There’s a down side, too: I can also envision the people I love most in the world in those hospital beds, in those waiting rooms drinking vending machine coffee and forgetting they haven’t eaten all day, in those conference rooms making the hardest decisions any of us will ever have to make. I freely acknowledge that all of us – myself included – will end up there in one way or another, but it’s beyond me to accept that that will happen to the people closest to me. What my job makes sure I realize about the future, All Saints Day reminds us about the past. They both speak about the universal: that everyone who was born will also die. We can’t change that fact of life (and death), but we can do something with it. We can cherish the people we love while we’re all together, and we can remember them when they’re gone. And those who aren’t among the rich and famous – who didn’t rule kingdoms or compose symphonies or earn massive wealth, as described in today’s reading from Ecclesiasticus – are still remembered, if only by a few. “Some of them have behind a name, so that others declare their praise,” Ecclesiasticus says, “but of others there is no memory; they have perished as though they had never existed … But these also were godly men, whose righteous deeds have not been forgotten. Their offspring will continue forever, and their glory will never be blotted out. Their bodies are buried in peace, but their name lives on generation after generation.” Today we’ll read a long list of names, each of whom is precious. Some might be famous around here – patriarchs and matriarchs of the parish, well-known to all. Others aren’t – perhaps they’re precious to a certain few, or only to a single person. Maybe the person who added that name to the list is himself gone from here, also a fading memory. And yet we remember. No matter what – or who – the world says is important. No matter what has happened in the days or months or years since that person last walked the earth – the once-crisp memories that have faded and intermingled with others, the hallowed place that person had in our lives that may now belong to someone else, and so on. And the way we remember them is also different: at first that name was like an open wound, exquisitely tender to the touch, visible for all the world to see. Gradually, though, the pain probably faded a bit, and became duller. We could remember the good times we shared together without being overwhelmed with sadness. And then, gradually, even the rough edges returned to us, as we recalled the things about that person that drove us absolutely batty. For me, someday, when perhaps my name will be on that list, the people closest to me will probably remember my tendency to empty the ice trays without refilling them, to wait several weeks after a trip before finally unpacking my suitcase, and a rather remarkable inability to notice or at least be bothered by soap scum in the shower. But I’d also point out that I never leave the toilet seat up and I bake a mean loaf of bread, so I hope people will remember those things, too. And once we get there – to that point where we can remember all the facets of those who’ve died and who we never stopped loving, not even for a minute – we can even imagine them sitting here, next to us. Maybe not in church, because I’ll bet some people on that list would’ve said they’d never get caught dead in church, and lucky for them they’re not around to realize that, yes, they literally did get caught dead in church. But we can imagine them somewhere, sitting next to us, wearing that shirt or hat or pair of socks that seemed to define them, that it seems, looking back on it, that they always wore. We can hear them leaning over to us and whispering something in our ear – perhaps wise, perhaps irreverent, maybe nothing special at all, although we’d give everything we have in the world to hear whatever they might say to us today. The church talks a lot about All Saints Day – it is, after all, one of the major feasts in the church year. We also talk about the communion of saints, and people have very different images of what that means: a bunch of bright white angels floating in heaven, the heavenly chorus singing hymns of praise to the risen Lord, stuff like that. But I really think the communion of saints is what we have right here, today. Because with God time ceases to mean very much at all, and as we remember the saints who have died, we also have to accept the blessing – and the responsibility – of ourselves being the saints who will die someday, and will be with God from there on out. The past hasn’t left us, and the future is inescapable, and all the saints are here – the person sitting next to you, the name you placed on the list, the unspoken names that are written on our hearts, and most especially yourself. That might seem too good to be true. Especially for those of us who are dealing with acute stages of grief, that may seem like Pollyannaish gobbledygook. But what is faith in God, if not something that’s too good to be true? That’s exactly the point Jesus was trying to make in the Sermon on the Mount, where He went on and on about how people who didn’t seem all that blessed actually were, when you looked at the situation through God’s eyes. The poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, the persecuted, the reviled: all of them are blessed. Even those who don’t sound too bad off actually are, in practical terms, when you look closer: people wouldn’t hunger and thirst for righteousness if there was enough righteousness to go around; people who are merciful might well be mistreated by the very folks they showed mercy to. Yet, still, they’re blessed. And the reason that all these outcasts and fall guys are blessed? Because they’ll receive the very thing they most long for. Those who mourn will be comforted; those who hunger and thirst for righteousness will be filled; the merciful will receive mercy. That may seem more like Santa Claus than Jesus Christ – if you’re good, you’ll get what you asked for. And Lord knows that doesn’t sound like the Jesus Christ who talked about picking up your Cross and following Him. But I really think that’s what Jesus came to earth for, and died for: so that we could have the deepest desires of our hearts. And I don’t mean a bigger home or a fancy car; or lots of presents on Christmas morning; or our favorite team winning the World Series, even though that ended up happening recently. I mean the things that we care most passionately about – the things that make life worth living. After all, God made us the way we are. When Adam was alone, God gave him a companion. When the Israelites were persecuted, God led them to the promised land. When we were trapped in a state of sin, Jesus came to save us. Not all Christian denominations look at things this way. Some talk about how we are “totally depraved” and how we basically need to turn our backs on anything that seems good to us, and follow God’s ways, which are not our own. But Anglicanism looks at things differently. Anglicanism has an “incarnational theology,” which says that while we’re certainly not perfect, we’re not heinous either. We shouldn’t follow every whim of our hearts, but neither should be run in the opposite direction. Instead, we need to strip away our selfish desires. We need to face our fears. Admit our sin. Ask God for help. And after all of that, what’s left within us is what’s most important. What God put there in the first place, knowing that if we acted on it, we’d be happy and content and saved. Loving God: serving and following Him. And spending all the rest of our time loving the people God brought into our lives, both those that are still with us, and those who are with Him, as we soon will be. Because in God there is no past or future when it comes to love. There is only present, when the people we loved and will love are all with us, and God is here, too. I’ll conclude with a poem by Franz Wright called “The Visiting,” which seems appropriate for this All Saints Day. I suffer from insomnia, from loneliness I sleep; Hour of waking up and writhing one was aware of what they were. Hour when the ones who can’t rest Dark blue morning glory Then the light streamed in yellow Tears of wine though it had never happened a darkness all of light. The more |
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